by J. D. Sonne
They did not attack her again, as she expected, but just stood looking—at her, at each other, as if they did not know what to do. Her virul finally stepped forward. “I will take you back to camp.”
As she was led away, the virul’s hold on her arm a little desperate, she thought, she noticed that some other viruls had helped the wounded one to his feet, blood pouring down his face. She found herself shrugging inwardly. The great hulking idiots! It was no wonder they were having trouble building anything, let alone a waterwork.
He threw her on the ground and shackled her feet, binding her hands as well. Although she felt like remonstrating with him on the latter, she kept silent.
He stayed in camp and Rane watched him as the tale made its way through its hearths, the females glancing her way, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues in disbelief. After a while she looked away from the camp and stared into the forest, bewildered that an honest effort to make the work go better had her right back where she began, hobbled to the ground in these ridiculous shackles. Damn.
Chapter Six
She was fettered thus for many days, so many in fact that she lost count. She returned to the studied politeness as before, even affecting deference when her virul or one of the females delivered her meals. Trying to ignore her filth was the worst deprivation she experienced, and she desperately wanted to bathe—as a cursory and unsatisfying drench in the stream outside camp was the only cleansing she had been allowed, and that before the incident—and found it increasingly difficult to keep up her spirits as a result.
One morning she felt so low that she left her breakfast untouched. A few females came at her, chattering that she needed to eat but she was only vaguely aware of them. She lay on her side, facing away from the camp and didn’t move for hours. It was too much, now. She missed her village, her family and the situation of her old life and she felt this new life was not worth enduring anymore. In her fading mind, she reasoned that starvation would be an out, not a quick one, but one, nevertheless.
She eschewed all meals that first day and into the second. That day, after ignoring the midday meal, Rane was surprised that she did not feel the hunger as she had the day before or even that morning. It was as if a dull void had entered her and rendered her unfeeling. She would just sleep until she didn’t wake up. She wanted to laugh at her little drama here in the dirt in a camp of renegade viruls and untitled females, but hadn’t the strength.
She barely moved when she felt the kick against her arch. Another persistent kick made her look up and she saw her virul standing over her. Then his hands were on either side of her head as he peered into her face.
“You will eat!”
She batted at his hands and weakly muttered, “I will not.”
Then a vague awareness of his voice looped in and out of her consciousness and she found it rather easy to put up a barrier against his words, until he said, “The work is going badly. We need your help. . .”
She opened her eyes and stared into the rustic foliage that walled the camp. She mumbled something into the dust.
“What?” The virul leaned down, finally stooping so he was close to her face, but wary, lest it be a trick.
Rane was irritated that she had to repeat, and all politeness having been subsumed in her depletion, spit weakly into the dust, “I said, you stupid virul! You should have thought of that before you stayed my hand. One virul dead, but the others would be working. You stupid virul,” she repeated, drool accompanying her delirium.
“All right,” he said. “I will make sure the others behave, but I will be the one who punishes. I need your help. Nothing is going right. Not only did they not listen to you, but they are not listening to me! And I do not have your expertise in building the waterworks. Eat something! Please! I will take off the shackles and untie your hands, only just come back and help!”
Rane had not the strength to speak, as the outburst the previous moment had taken all of her vocal strength. She had just enough physical strength to do one thing—she lifted her trussed hands.
He must have taken that as a signal of assent, for he untied her hands, even rubbing her wrists that were striated with ugly welts from the cords. He then set to work pulling the stake out of the earth and releasing her feet from the iron bonds. She still was unable to move and felt hands pulling her up to a sitting position. A warm soup was being poured down her throat, and she gulped at it eagerly.
“Not too much at once,” she heard her virul say. “We don’t want it all coming back up.”
They laid her back down, one even covering her with a blanket, the warmth in her stomach giving her enough strength to access her spirit and mind to assess her new situation. The fools, she thought. You’d think that at least one of them could direct the building of a waterwork! Luckily for her, they were even more incompetent and ineffectual than even she realized. They wanted her back. A new warmth filled her with excitement. Release and the scenario of a new possibility of escape accompanied her to sleep.
It took two days for her to fully escape the residual weakness of her attempt to starve herself, but at least now she was ensconced in her own hut. The dwelling was rude, but she found that its walls of animal skin made it as cozy on the inside as it looked from the outside. On the third day, she found that upon awakening, she was more than ready to shrug off its confines. As soon as she had dressed herself, she crawled out, not from a necessity of weakness, but rather from the hut’s squat architecture. The glen had been warmed by morning rays, and she judged it to be the tenth turn of the water clock, not that these savages had one. She decided that after getting the waterwork on schedule, she would build a water clock. It would not be elegant by any means, as she was not a woodcraftswoman, but she could manage the rudiments as every Lead was required in Study to build aquan timepieces of every shape and design.
A pot of brew was bubbling on the hearth outside the hut and an empty wooden bowl perched on one of the hearthstones. There was no spoon, so waiting for it to cool somewhat, she shoveled the mess into her mouth with very little dignity, but she found she did not care. Her belly full, she stood and walked out of camp in the direction of the waterwork, ignoring the females who still stared at her openly. Rude, she thought.
Surprised at her unsteadiness, she had to rest every few trough lengths and a little anxiety trailed her halting gait. Sounds of the industry of wood working greeted her on the outskirts of the site and she wondered what horrors of logistics polluted the construction area.
She scanned the site and saw no viruls by the troughs, which lay very much the way she left them. The poundings, sawings and lathings came from a primitive structure that had no walls. The viruls were in the process of laying logs over joists forming a pitch for a roof. She almost started yelling at them to stop, then thought for a moment. Why not ask first? It might be better to find out her virul’s plan.
“So. What is this for?”
It was almost comical how everyone froze: a tableau of viruls with hammers, planks and saws were suspended in various poses, their eyes wide at her appearance, and slowly all of them lowered their tools and looked at her virul.
He had been applying the lathe to a half-cut log, and, brushing his hands of shavings, he approached Rane.
“We thought we could use your recovery time to build a structure for storage,” her virul said warily. “We did not want to start back up on the waterwork itself until you could supervise.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Rane said easily, surprising even herself at her calm. “We will need shelter for the wood to keep it dry. It will be easier to work with that way.”
The viruls responded to her equanimity by returning to their various activities, some of the herd even accompanying their shrugs with nods as they did so.
She beckoned to her virul and together they walked to the helter-skelter scaffolding of troughs. It almost looked as if a giant child had abandoned its play logs for some other distraction. She ambled over to one of the tro
ughs and stooped over it, peering at its hollowed interior.
“The first thing we have to address,” Rane said, “is the technique of hollowing. See how rough that finish is?” she said as she ran her hand over the splintered surface. “That will create horrific ripples in the flow, which will soon lead to the collapse of a trough network no matter how sturdy the scaffold is.” She glanced over at the braces in the structure. It was not as slipshod as she remembered, now that she was being a little more calm and analytical. “The scaffolding you came up with is not that bad, really,” she murmured, more to herself as she pounded one of the joists with the flat of her hand to test its strength. “No, that is not bad at all. I can teach you how to make the support poles a little straighter. That will help the weight of the support, not to mention ease of construction. No, not bad at all. What?”
“Just—well—” the virul said, a little hesitant, “that is the first time you have said something positive about well—us, here.”
What do you expect, you idiot? Rane wanted to say. I’m not exactly on vacation, stupid! Instead, she said, “I was just waiting for something positive to say something about.”
At that, the virul laughed. “Yes, I guess that sounds reasonable.”
Rane was about to give another measured response, but laughed instead, in spite of herself.
That afternoon, she gave the viruls an overview of everything she could remember about construction, woodworking techniques, and even management of building resources. Many of them had worked the troughs of their various sectors, but always under Leads and Titleds. She did not have that luxury here, of course, so taught them how to oversee a team, trying to remember those who seemed to have the aptitude for leadership. She set those faces to memory, determining who would lead her crews when the time came.
Allowing viruls to assume leadership roles countermanded everything she had been taught as a child, then a student and Lead, but she felt she had no choice in the given circumstances. She had to make the best of her workforce, and this silly group of viruls was it. Until she could escape or was rescued, she had two basic goals. One was to keep busy and make the time go by as swiftly and painlessly as possible. If she didn’t have a task to eat away at the long days, she knew she would go crazy. The second was to earn the trust of these dullards so that she could effect an escape at the first opportunity. They had to come to the eventual conclusion that she was one of them, and her helping them construct this waterwork would go a long way to make them believe in that camaraderie. And, her efforts would not be regarded back home as treasonous since destruction of this waterwork would be an easy proposition when the time came.
When the time came. She was a little surprised that she had not seen a contingent of Amazaquans break down the camp by now. She had so fully expected a rescue that her mind had hardly touched on the possibility that she would have to stay here more than a cycle of tides. But, as the pours of time trickled by and the sun and moon cycles swirled away, she realized that this camp may be truly impenetrable to those on the outside, that perhaps rescue was impossible, that maybe she was entirely on her own. Usually, such thoughts assailed her as she bedded down in her hut each night, and panic would steal her sleep at such times. But it was not always so, and she found she was settling into life here in her prison glade a little too well. It was all she could do to keep her mind on her home back at the lodge and she discovered that it became more and more difficult to see her mother’s face in her thoughts. Her sister’s face had disappeared long ago, but she did not care too much about that.
Time ceased its crawl as the waterwork swelled into a prodigious growth of sturdy lattices conjoined with elegant joints and trusses. As the structure gained maturity, Rane noticed that the viruls became more thorough in their tasks. She mentioned as much to her virul.
He stopped pounding on the iron brace for one of the joists and seemed to consider the observation, then said, “Even though you are directing the work, the men—“
“Viruls,” she interrupted as she always did when he used the outdated term for their world.
He looked at her pointedly, smiled and went on, “The men are now feeling an ownership in crafting their waterwork.”
Rane thought, when I am rescued, we will own their waterwork and colonize the glen. Aloud she said, “But without me, there would have been no waterwork. They really cannot take credit.”
He gave a depreciating shrug and said, “You should be glad that they do. Is it not easier now? Don’t you find that you are yelling at us less and less as the cycles turn?”
“Yes,” Rane admitted, “I am less hoarse at the end of the day, but they should never forget that I instigated the waterwork and that without a Lead or Titled directing them, the work would soon devolve into chaos, Landman.”
She often said such things in an attempt to get a rise out of her virul, whom she had taken to calling by name.
To her intense irritation, he only laughed and said, “You have lived among us for how many cycles, three? And you can still say such things. I assure you, the only reason that such direction is needed—only for a short time,” he said at her churlish expression, “is that the Titleds kept such an iron box around such knowledge, even punishing creativity and simple crafting among us.”
A retort was on her lips, but her whirling thoughts attested to his statement. She never remembered seeing any virul engaging in small woodworking projects or hobbies of any type. It was something she had never thought about before. Crafting and creative handwork, delicate or industrial, were heartily encouraged among the Leads and Titleds, and great expositions of their work often were held at the grand lodge. Metal worked fountains, timepieces and water sculptures with intricate cogs and wheelworks graced not only these expositions, but every home. The same could be said of woodworking, with its master Titleds and apprentice Leads milling every conceivable gadget, gewgaw and artpiece out of gorgeous spirals, spindles and moldings that could be produced from the indigenous forests of Maraquan.
Another retort did find its way to her mouth, however. “That is because viruls are not creative. They are only good at serving. Anyway, I have never seen a virul punished for a hobby.” She felt such derision for the idea that a scalding laugh accompanied the last few words.
He waited for an end to her mirth, then was silent for many moments. “I want to tell you a story. It is about my older brother. Our Titled mother kept us together longer than is usual in your households. My brother and I were very close, but learned early on to hide how much we liked each other after we both were beaten for, what did she call it? Oh yes, subversive affection. “
Rane wanted to interrupt and challenge his story, but was too drawn to this understory of virul life. Not only that, but she had actually heard other Titleds and Leads referring to this transgression. The explanation for keeping viruls emotionally isolated, her mother said, was to keep them from plotting mischief or even rebellion.
“The day of his leave-taking came when he was to be shipped to the mines that served our sector. I was devastated and remembered absolutely willing my face to still, so my grief would not betray me. That day was the last time I saw him alone, and he gave me a beautiful box, highly crafted with the most beautiful carvings I had ever seen, including that of the great works of the exposition.” His face softened, his eyes glancing away at the memory. “A lion chasing a deer, boats on impossibly detailed rivulets of water, forests depicted down to their last thorn and leaf.” Quickly he knuckled his eyes and went on. “But we were not alone, it turns out. One of the sister leads of the home saw him hand me the box. She ripped it out of my hands and the mother was called.” He looked away. “I do not know if he ever made it to the mines. All I remember of the rest of that day were his howls and muffled violence being done to him in a stall of one of the stables in the back of our lodge. I should not have done it, but I hid in the adjoining stall as he was beaten. I don’t see how he could survive such a thing.” He hung his head and said, �
��And, I don’t think he did.”
Before she knew what she was doing, Rane stretched her hand toward him almost touching his hair with a comforting tousle. Luckily, he did not look up before she retracted the offending touch in horror, thinking, what am I doing?
By the time Landman had recovered and looked up, Rane had headed back to her worktable where she had laid the plan parchments earlier that morning. She studied them more out of a sense of emotional escape than actual tasking. The rumblings of feeling she felt sickened and horrified her, and she gripped the table to keep from shaking. She could not, would not allow such feelings to assail her again. If she had to totally avoid him until she escaped or was rescued, she resolved to do so. Finally, the shame and guilt became so overwhelming that she pushed away from the table so abruptly that it almost felt over, pulling the attention of a few viruls nearby away from the trough they were hollowing out.
Rushing down the path to the camp, Rane punched the air a few times, even kicking at some of the trees along the muddy path. One particular kick cracked a small tree almost in half. That made her feel better until she remembered that trees were to be reverenced, and guilt stabbed at her once again.
Bread was in the fires back at the camp and one of the females timidly extended a loaf to Rane who grabbed it out of her hands, pounding through the animal skin flap into her hut. She sat on one of the skins that covered the dirt floor and tore at the bread with her teeth. The loaf was grainy and coarse, and its vulgarity reminded her of the sumptuous repasts from home. Venison that had been seethed in its own juice and covered with liver pudding; flaky pasties skewered with honeyed sugar sticks bathed in butter. As she chewed the tacky bread, her eyes filled with tears and she soon had collapsed into a self-pitying tirade aimed at her sorry circumstances, and the stupid viruls and the weak females that populated this ridiculous glen. When the fit spent itself, she looked around at the bread bits that she had thrown around the tent and the upended skins and torn bedding and immediately felt foolish. All this drama because she had experienced feelings for a stupid virul.
